


Let It Always Be Known That I Was Who I Am

by LunaCatriona



Series: Blue Bleezin' Blind Drunk [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCatriona/pseuds/LunaCatriona
Summary: "It's funny how the first chords that you come to are the minor notes that come to serenade you; and it's hard to accept yourself as someone you don't desire, as someone you don't want to be."After the break-up of her marriage, it's time for Jean Innocent to begin accepting herself for who she is. The problem is, that means figuring out who she is without the anchor of her marriage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fast forward a bit from the last story; I was going to do this another way but life got in the way (including my mum kicking my stepdad out and me moving to the Republic of Ireland - again) and I'd rather do this to split things up now.

“Go on!” James Hathaway shouted. “Do it, if it’s going to make you feel better!”

Jean Innocent loosened her grip on James’ shirt, slowly lowering the fist she’d had drawn back, ready to deliver a blow to his face. He shuffled himself upright, no longer leaning away from her into the back of the sofa. Her hand shook as it unwillingly left James’ chest; all she wanted was to strike.

She’d been back at work for nearly a month, after having six weeks off to recover from her tumble down the stairs. It had started out alright. Everyday business passed as normal. It was her police station once more, under her command as it ought to be.

But it lingered. It simmered. The sentencing hearing was fast approaching and, after giving evidence and facing her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Jean’s head was imploding in on itself. It was crushed in pools of anger, hurt and fear. Anger – real, undiluted fury – was not something Jean Innocent was used to feeling. She was normally a woman whose head talked sense and whose heart submitted to that sense. And suddenly, her head wasn’t talking sense but her heart continued to submit; the anger drowned her, and she allowed it to.

James reached out to put his hand on Jean’s arm, but she batted him away and snapped, “Don’t touch me!”

“What on Earth has got into you, ma’am?” James asked her.

“Go,” Jean replied, her voice hoarse. “Just get back to work.”

When he left, Jean fell onto the sofa with her hands over her face. It was a blur. She couldn’t remember pinning him down or pulling back her fist. All she could recall was his incessant concern and questioning, like he didn’t trust her to be back in the workplace. James had tried to stop her walking away from him – and the next thing Jean had known was his order to hit him.

In the two and a half months since that fall, Jean had been subjected to a psychological evaluation – which she had passed – and floods of concern and care from James Hathaway, Robbie Lewis, Laura Hobson, and, of course, her own family. They didn’t seem to understand how it riled her. She couldn’t fathom her own reactions, never mind expect anyone else to; it was the reason she wasn’t entirely sure how she’d managed to pass the psychologist’s tests. Her anger always simmered away, waiting for its opportunity to boil.

But to make to hit James Hathaway? That wasn’t something she had ever thought herself capable of. It wasn’t something she had ever thought about doing to anyone, not even Thomas. And James was not anything like Thomas; he was probably the person least deserving of a punch, after all he had done for her.

And yet, she had wanted to do it. She had wanted nothing more than to let her fist fly. It had been the answer to the problem, even though she was not entirely sure of exactly what the problem was. Was this how Thomas had felt when he laid into her? Did she drive him to feel like this?

If she did, all this was her fault. The fact she had almost died, and that he was now awaiting his sentencing, was her doing. She had done this to her husband. She had got him in such bother that he was now waiting to find out how long he was going to have to spend in prison. What was worse was that she wanted him to be there. Even though she had brought about these events, she was relieved to know he had been convicted. She was a terrible wife.

Knuckles rapped at the door. “Come,” called Jean, though she would rather have been left to stew in her own juices.

Robert Lewis walked in. “Ma’am,” he said as a habit of professional respect.

“Please tell me you haven’t started any riots.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then what is it?” she asked impatiently.

“Just wanted to check you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

The answer was robotic. Automatic, without thought or emotion. She didn’t have the thought or emotion required to give a truthful answer.

It showed in Robbie’s reaction; his face was a sceptical frown, for he blatantly did not believe or trust her answer. Objectively, she could not blame him, but objectivity seemed to be difficult to come by these days. “You’re sure about that, are you, ma’am?”

“Completely.”

He sighed. There wasn’t anything he could do, and they both knew that. However, Robbie was like James: reluctant to accept the idea that Jean Innocent was not who they thought she was. Or perhaps she had been playing the part so long she had worn out her ability to continue. Whatever it was, there was no recovery in sight, for any of them. That was another thing for which she was to blame – the damage the past few months had inflicted upon those she worked with, and who had befriended her. They were not the same, forever changed by the events her stupidity and selfishness had brought about.

But still Robbie did not accept her answer, even if he could accept she would not tell him anything different. She had a feeling James might have told him about their encounter.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He took that as his dismissal and left her office.

The silence drowned her in a substance thicker than water, and acidic enough to burn through her bones, but it was something she was familiar with, like it was all she’d ever known.

She wondered if she should have gone home as soon as she was able to manage the stairs on her own; so focused was she on her physical recovery, she had forgotten there was still an ordeal to go through before Thomas saw the inside of a jail cell with any degree of permanence. Perhaps she ought to have taken the help when it was offered to her, rather than accepting just enough to get by and eventually rejecting it altogether.

Maybe if she had let someone help her, rage wouldn’t soar through her body. Maybe she would be more settled. Or maybe it would have made no difference at all, and she would have ended up like this no matter how she chose to deal with matters. Perhaps it had always been inevitable that Jean would fail to live with the results of her marriage. That notion, however, provided no comfort. Even if it was never a choice, it was still a failure to cope. A failure to thrive, as they would have put it in the old days.

What was there to be so angry about, though? She was getting her own way. Her assailant was convicted and was probably going to prison for years. Even her son did not hate her, as she had feared he might. Her anger was unjustified.

And she regretted that anger. She hated its very existence. All she wanted to do was find James and tell him she was sorry for wanting to harm him. It was what she would do if she had it in her to face him.

“No,” she whispered to herself rather frantically. “No, I’m fine. I’ve got to be fine. They said I was fine.”

But they – the psychologist – hadn’t said she was fine. No, that psychologist had said she had passed the test to return to work. Nothing about being fine had been mentioned. The anger was real.

It came out when she was around James. He reminded her of what she had done and failed to do, and that she took more than she gave. One of them had to go. There was no possibility of their continued friendship. She didn’t think they could even continue working together. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He just did as he always did – tried to be the best version of himself. He tried to help her. It was not his fault she resented that help, and herself for wanting to accept it.

Jean had no other option. Either she transferred to another division herself, or she transferred James, or made him redundant. She could not risk actually delivering the blow she had prepared for today. And as cowardly as she was, she felt unable to uproot any part of her own life while she knew her state of mind to be fragile.

If she was going to do this to James, she had to at least summon the human decency to do it face to face. So she steeled herself, and set foot out the door. When she reached Lewis and Hathaway’s office, she was unsurprised to find James examining evidence while Robbie was out speaking to people. Jean closed the door and leaned against Robbie’s desk, well away from James. He looked up from his work, his expression questioning but without fear. “Ma’am?” he asked.

“There’s no nice way to put this,” Jean said quickly, “so I’ll just spit it out. I’m transferring you, sergeant. They’re always looking for decent DI prospects over at Organised Crime.”

“What?” he demanded sharply.

“You heard me.”

He didn’t stand up, but his back straightened like he was ready to challenge her. “Why?”

“It’s good for your career.”

“I’m fine here.”

“You should be better than just fine.”

James glared at Jean, his eyes working like an x-ray as they scanned her face. “You’re lying. What’s this really about?”

Jean hesitated. If she opened the door to the conversation she knew he wanted to have, she would be drawing him into a black hole she alone had to endure. But he was not a stupid man; indeed, her life would have been much simpler and lonelier if he were stupid, but he wasn’t. One way or another, he was going to force her to have this conversation. “I almost punched you, James,” she said tonelessly.

“But you didn’t.”

“But I _wanted_ to.”

“But you _didn’t_ ,” repeated James. “You didn’t do it.”

“And what about the next time?”

“Will there be a next time?”

“How can I know the answer to that?” she snapped.

As she said it, she let her hand fall onto her left arm, where the scars of her husband’s anger remained. It was a movement James clocked, as his eyes followed her hand until it rested. Jean looked away from him. “You have every reason to be angry,” he said quietly. “You’ve taken years of emotional, mental and physical abuse. You almost died. You’ve been left with scars on just about every level. Your marriage has disintegrated. You’re allowed to be angry, Jean.”

She turned her head to glower at him for using her first name, and remembered with a sickening jolt how she had once asked him to use it after her husband told her she didn’t deserve a name or rank or vocation at all.

“But don’t be angry with me,” he implored her. “I’m trying to help in any way I can. In any way I know how to, which admittedly isn’t many. I’m not the enemy.”

But even as the words left his mouth, she loathed them. He was the enemy. Everyone was the enemy. She was her own enemy. James could not understand that, of course – she didn’t understand it herself – but there were no allies. Only enemies. There was always an enemy, a monster, lurking, and there was no knowing who it was; everyone, therefore, was the enemy.

“Don’t transfer me,” he said gently. “It’s not the way to deal with things. And don’t you leave, either,” he added, like he could see into the depths of her clockwork mind.

Jean didn’t answer. To back down was not in her nature, especially with a sergeant. His judgement, however, was probably sounder than her own in that moment. He was not ravaged by fear and fury, and his soul was not frozen in the pits of Hell. Regardless of rank, Jean was not stupid enough to believe herself superior to James Hathaway.

So she simply left without giving him any answer at all. She could feel the anger turn inwards; suddenly she hated nobody more than she hated herself. It was not a new sensation, for she had felt it often recently, but it still shook her legs and quickened her heart, and it was all she could do to run to her office for privacy and solitude while her raving head continued to keep its grip on her livid heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drogheda, Ardee, Navan, Dublin, Ashbourne, Kilmainhamwood, Dunshaughlin, Blanchardstown, Trim, Slane, Kingscourt...we've gone so many places this past week that I'm never entirely sure which Irish town I'm in at any given moment. Someone help me while I can still string a sentence together.

James Hathaway watched Jean Innocent. He watched as she fell and tried to get back on her feet, time and time again. Sometimes he honestly thought she didn’t realise herself that she had fallen at all, because she cut herself no slack. He had occasionally confided his fears in Robbie Lewis, but both had resigned themselves to the idea that there was no getting through to her; they were both simply too stubborn to stop trying.

“She’s kicking herself now,” James muttered over his pint that evening. “Tried to reassign me to Organised Crime for my own protection.”

“I still can’t believe she was going to hit you,” said Laura Hobson. “That’s not like her at all.”

“Innocent does a lot of things she never used to do,” Robbie chipped in, his tone dark. “She’s even shuttin’ her son out these days. Hasn’t spoken to him in weeks.”

“He told you that?” Laura asked.

“Yeah,” sighed Robbie. “Yeah, he called a couple of days ago because his mother won’t answer the phone or the door to him.”

James stared down into his glass for a moment. All he wanted – all anyone wanted – was to help Jean. To see her settled, if not happy. Even in her current state of unadulterated rage, she was not a bad person. This was not her fault. And James rather thought a large proportion of that anger she harboured was directed at herself. It was more a worry than a comfort, as he had no way of knowing how that anger manifested itself when she was alone, which, it seemed, was most of the time.

“I feel so damn helpless,” James muttered. “I should be able to say something, _do_ something, to make it better.”

It was the first time he had honestly admitted to the depth of his attachment to Jean Innocent to anyone other than Jean herself; he waited for the scorn and the laughter but, mercifully, it never came. The world was smaller than he had ever encountered when he thought of her; she was paramount, and yet there was nothing he could do to help her, for she would not accept even the most perfect of assistance. For James, Jean was the embodiment of survival and grace, but also the cautionary tale of a person who walked alone until it started to break her heart.

“Nobody can make it better,” Laura said wisely. “You can’t help until she asks for it, or all you’ll do is push her further away.”

“D’you think if I spoke to Chris he might make some headway with her?” asked Robbie.

“I’m not optimistic,” grumbled James. “That look on her face…it was like something snapped inside her.”

Laura sighed, while Robbie remained silent, albeit with a troubled expression upon his face. They knew Jean now, and they knew the indicators that all was not fine. It was an array of red lights and alarm bells, blaring in James’ eyes and ears as he recalled being pinned down by such a small but rage-filled woman; in that moment, his size advantage over her had evaporated. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to feel more powerful than Jean – it was simply an unavoidable fact that nature had built him to be able to overpower her. But it had gone out the window. She had been the powerful one. She had overpowered him.

“If we knew how to intervene-” began Robbie.

“We’d probably make it worse, no matter what we did,” interjected James. “You didn’t see her when it happened. She wasn’t _there_.” He wondered if, once upon a time, Jean’s world had been vast and beautiful; these days it seemed she inhabited a derelict and constricted world to which she could never belong. Never would she own the world’s room, either. To know that caused James a great deal of sadness, purely because he wanted the world for Jean, or at least a world in which Jean could find her place.

And yet, logic was challenged by empathy; whether it would do any good or not, he wanted to see her, to tell her it was going to be okay, that her anger was justified, that she didn’t have to hold herself together alone. All the things he wanted to tell her required courage, though, and in the department of emotional honesty, courage did not come naturally to James.

* * *

 

Jean sat on her living room floor, wine in hand, staring into the emptiness around her. She loathed this house. It was full of cruelty and heartache and dishonest love. Even now it lingered in the air like the stench of decaying death. She tried to recall when she had last been happy here, but she could not find the moment. She tried to remember feeling safe, but she couldn’t remember what safety felt like, never mind the last time she had felt it herself. Did she even _want_ to be safe? Did she deserve to be safe? Had she earned that reward in her life?

Her only achievements were her son and her career. Her son had gone through his youth with issues aplenty, so she hadn’t been a sterling mother. Her career was only as good as it was because she had thrown herself into it to escape everything else. She understood that now, and no longer felt like something she had used to avoid her failings as a human being could be marked down as a great achievement on her part. Not when her son and her husband had suffered for it.

Her mobile phone rang for the third time that night. The first had been Chris, the second had been James, and now Ruth was calling her. The only reason Jean answered it was that Ruth could not be trusted to go and tell their parents that Jean wasn’t answering the phone. Her approach to Jean’s situation had changed drastically since the fall.

“Hello, Ruth,” Jean said quietly, like she might wake a sleeping baby if she spoke at what others considered a normal volume.

“Hey, Jeannie,” Ruth sighed. She could hear the sad smile in her sister’s voice. “How are you doing?”

“My ankle’s a little sore but other than that I’m fine,” answered Jean. “How are things with you?”

“You haven’t been wearing heels again, have you?”

“No,” lied Jean. “No, I’ve just been on my feet all day.”

There was no way of knowing whether or not Ruth believed her, for the next thing she said was, “Marjolein wants to come and see you. I thought we could come over on Saturday afternoon.”

“I’ll come to yours,” Jean replied quickly. She did not want her sister to see how derelict and cold her home was; she was sure to pass concerned comment. “Tomorrow evening, after work? I’ll bring food,” she offered.

The hesitation in Ruth’s silence was deafening. “Are you sure? You’ll be tired?”

“Yeah. It’ll do me good to drive somewhere that isn’t the police station, too. I need to get back into the habit of it.” It was carefully calculated; she needed Ruth to believe she was taking steps towards being okay again. Jean seemed to spend half her time carefully calculating what other people saw, until those moments of uncontrollable recklessness came over her. “I’ll get a curry or a Chinese on the way over.”

“Alright,” Ruth said, though her tone was one of unwilling deference to the elder sibling. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. I love you, Jean.”

“Love you too,” Jean murmured. She did not miss the earnest sincerity in her sister’s words, and she did not have the energy required to return it in her own reply. Without giving Ruth the chance to speak again, Jean hung up the phone and tossed it onto the coffee table in front of her.

She drained her wine and emptied the last of the bottle into the glass.

A creaking on the stairs made her startle to her feet, almost spilling wine over herself; she looked around the brightly lit room as fright raced into her heart, until she remembered that this old house groaned at night as the temperature dropped. “You idiot,” she snarled at herself. “Get a grip, woman.”

How could she possibly be scared in an empty house? It was ridiculous. Laughable. She was a Chief Superintendent; she knew better than to behave with instinctive fear.

Hands shaking, she finished her wine and set the glass down on the table. It was after ten, and she had nothing better to do than go to bed and try to sleep. She didn’t clear up her glass and bottle – she could do that in the morning – and she left her phone where it lay. If she didn’t have it with her, she could not hear it ring and therefore did not have to answer it.

She turned on the hallway light before she turned off the living room light; she refused to be in the dark where she could not see what lurked at her back. But even in an empty house, she was careful to move noiselessly up the stairs. She still listened for the movement in the bedroom that told her someone was on the move.

It was in silence that Jean changed into her pyjamas, washed her face and brushed her hair. Not only did she refrain from speech, but she placed her belongings down with soft precision and care, cringing whenever she made a noise.

The doorbell rang.

Jean turned on her heel, now facing the bedroom door as she tried to work out who would be at her door at nearly eleven at night. Thomas, she remembered, was awaiting sentencing and could not possibly be here.

She crept down the stairs, fearful of who might be on the other side of the door. But when she reached up to look through the peephole, she was surprised to find James Hathaway there. He looked a little intoxicated and, though she had reservations about letting a half-cut man into her home, it was James and she could not leave him standing out there.

With the door unlocked, she let him step over the threshold before she asked him wearily, “What on Earth are you doing on my doorstep at this hour, sergeant?”

James looked down on her, his expression one of slight confusion. “I came to say something to you,” he told her, “but now I can’t remember what it was.”

“Helpful,” quipped Jean. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not that much, actually,” he replied, his tone a little brighter. “I just had it on an empty stomach and a tired head.” Of course, that didn’t change the fact he wasn’t quite in control of himself; Jean took a step back from him. He wasn’t drunk enough to overlook it. “Are you frightened of me?”

“No.”

But as James took another step forward, Jean fought to remain where she stood and ignore the way her heart started to beat out of time. She struggled to keep breathing, willing herself not to panic as this huge man loomed over her. It was James, for God’s sake. James, who had done more than just about anyone to protect her. He didn’t have it in him to harm her.

The little voice in the back of her mind reminded her she had once believed that of her husband, and it had got her into this mess in the first place. It also sneered at her with the memory of her own indiscretion earlier today, and she didn’t even have the size and weight to back the threat up. Everyone was capable of violence – even her.

“I think you need to go home, sergeant,” Jean said. She tried not to hear how strained her voice was, or the formal way in which she pushed the person who had been at her side for months away from her. “Sleep it off and I’ll see you in the morning.”

James frowned. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?”

“Why are you isolating yourself?”

Jean laughed bitterly. They were going around in square circles. “I nearly punched you,” she reminded him for the second time today.

“But you didn’t.” He had not changed his mind on this matter – that much was clear in his face, drink or no drink.

“But I _wanted_ to.”

“But you _didn’t do it_ ,” he said forcefully. Suddenly his hands were on her arms and he had pulled her a step closer to him, while she craned her neck to examine his face. He wasn’t angry, though he had every right to be. “Jean, don’t you understand that? You didn’t do it, no matter how much you wanted to. You’re not a bad person.”

Truthfully, Jean had to admit to herself that she did not understand. As far as she was concerned the fact she had wanted to hurt him was reason enough for her to stay away from him. What made no sense was that James didn’t seem to be at all afraid of her. She resisted the urge to throw his hands from her arms; she did not want to hurt his feelings as she had done so many times before.

“Go home, James,” Jean said gently, staring up into his face. She opened the door. James stepped back out into the night, his eyes never leaving Jean until the door came between the two of them.

Jean locked the door and sat down on the stairs. She would not sleep tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to finish this chapter at the weekend but my grandad had a heart attack and my host-grandmother has been fussing over me ever since. Not much alone time until now. But I escaped and got it done in the end. Yay me!

Jean Innocent stood on her sister’s doorstep with a bag of Chinese food. What she needed to do was ring the doorbell, but she could not move. There was something – perhaps the knowledge that Ruth knew her so well – draining her energy and courage from her, after spending all day building up just enough of it to get through this visit.

She was spared the effort of forcing her hand to the doorbell when the door opened in front of her. There stood Hendrik, her brother-in-law, smiling at her like he was happy to see her. Like she was welcome.

“Jean,” he said, “do not loiter on the doorstep. Come inside.”

Jean followed Hendrik inside. She could hear her niece, Marjolein, as she passed the living room into the kitchen, and tried to fix a smile on her face for the child’s sake. To pretend was a struggle, but to explain was impossible, so she did her best to pretend even though she knew nobody was falling for it. Whatever her friends and family were, none of them were blind or stupid, especially Ruth, who had known Jean for the entirety of her time on this planet.

Hendrik, though, made Jean very nervous. It was like he could see into her soul. To know that he had lived this too caused her to wonder exactly how he saw her; her body had survived, but could he see that there were parts of her that had died? That huge sections of her heart had been excised and left to decay in that godforsaken house she had to call home?

“Jean?” Hendrik’s voice echoed through the empty air. “Are you okay?”

She blinked. The real world was no brighter than the one she travelled in her mind. “Yes,” she beamed. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

Hendrik allowed her a friendly and cautious smile, and took the bag of Chinese food from her hand. “Then come. Let’s eat.”

But Jean didn’t want to eat. Her stomach was churning at the very thought of sweet chilli chicken and rice. The scent of the sticky chilli sauce flooded over her; she had to force back the impulse to gag.

“Have you been to a doctor yet?” asked Hendrik as he portioned food out onto plates.

“Yeah,” Jean replied carefully, digging out cutlery. “Yeah, my ankle is healing well and there won’t be any serious lasting damage.” As she said it, she looked down at the burn scar on her arm and remembered that some wounds could never heal over properly.

“I was not talking about your ankle,” Hendrik said quietly. “I was talking about your mental health.”

Jean glared at him. “I’ve been cleared to go back to work. I’m fine.”

“No, you are not,” he replied. He said it like he was stating the blindingly obvious, and she looked down at the kitchen counter. Was she really so transparent? “If you were fine, you would not be avoiding Chris.” Her head snapped up at those words. “Yes, I know about that. He called the night before last.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“Why?”

That was a question everyone kept asking: why? Everything she chose, she was asked to justify. However, she wasn’t sure she knew her own reasons well enough to tell anyone else. How could she possibly explain why she was walking around with holes in her heart? “I just do,” was all she could come up with. It didn’t appear to satisfy Hendrik, for his eyes continued to scrutinise her even after she busied herself with taking up plates and heading for the living room.

Ruth sat on the sofa, and Marjolein on a child’s chair at the coffee table. Jean set the smallest plate down in front of her niece and kissed the little girl’s head. “Hello, sweetheart,” she smiled. “How are you?”

“Good,” grinned Marjolein. She started to eat, and Jean sat down next to Ruth. There was still no sign of hunger, but she knew Ruth and Hendrik would have something to say if she didn’t eat a single thing.

Ruth patted Jean’s arm and said, “How are you doing, Jean?”

“I’m fine,” murmured Jean. “How are things with you?”

“Oh, you know, the same as always,” smiled Ruth. Hendrik sat down in the armchair to Jean’s left and began to shovel food into his mouth. Ruth watched him for a moment before she rolled her eyes. “You’d think I starved him, honestly.”

Hendrik looked up at his wife and laughed. “I am skin and bone, Ruth! Skin and bone!” he shouted melodramatically. Marjolein giggled at her father’s antics, while Jean forced a laugh at what she knew was supposed to be entertaining.

Ruth gave Jean a look that plainly said, “See what I’ve got to put up with?” It grated on Jean’s already frayed nerves that her sister could be exasperated with a man who strived to do all that was good and kind for his wife and daughter. Didn’t she know to be grateful for the blessings in her life? To distract herself from her own irritation, Jean put a little food in her mouth. She instantly wanted to spit it out, but forced herself to chew and swallow.

It was awkward. Jean didn’t know what to say to them. That was part of the reason she had avoided interaction with other people since being discharged from hospital and returned to her own house. It didn’t help, of course, that she was inexplicably angry at certain people and scared of them in equal measure. It was indefensible behaviour, and yet she continued with it.

It occurred to her that the only reason she was here was that they had forced her hand: she had needed any visit to be on her own terms. It was controlling and calculated, and completely wrong; she didn’t want to be here with Ruth, Hendrik and Marjolein at all, but she should have. She should have loved them enough to actually want to spend her time with them, regardless of her own discomfort. But it was too much to sit here and make small talk until they inevitably brought the subject around to her own health and wellbeing. She couldn’t do it. Just like she couldn’t see or hear from Chris, she couldn’t sit here with her sister.

She had to get out of there. The room was too small, and sharing the air was suffocating her. Away from her sister, and from Hendrik – even from Marjolein, despite the child having no understanding of her aunt’s past or present. So she took out her phone from her bag and flicked through it; she pretended to read for a few moments and said, “Oh, for goodness’ sake. I’ve got to go back to work. One of the sergeants has opened some God-awful box of horrors in a kidnapping case.”

“At least finish your dinner,” Hendrik implored her.

Jean got to her feet and handed him the plate. “You have it, since you’re skin and bone,” she smirked at him. He frowned but took the plate, and she returned to pick up her bag and kiss Ruth’s cheek. “I’ll call you,” she said, with no intention of doing so. Jean turned and ruffled Marjolein’s hair and left before anyone could get up to walk her out.

And as she drove, she realised she could not go home. She could not sit in that house and listen to every creaking floorboard and gurgling pipe. It would surely drive her over the edge. The silence in that house screamed at her with the memory of how she had once lived, always there to remind her that she didn’t know how to live any other way. She considered the river or the canal but quickly understood that she should not go near any body of water right now. There was always the pub, but it was crowded and loud and hot – everything Jean could not bear.

The only sanctuary she had left to her was the Chief Superintendent’s office in the CID. Though it was quiet and empty, it was the safest place she knew. In the familiar car park, she stepped into the open air and headed into the police station. It was well past eight in the evening at this stage, and so there would not be very many people in the building. With any luck, she would be able to avoid all of them and bury herself in paperwork without interruption.

Jean walked silently past Lewis and Hathaway’s office and could not help but notice that Hathaway was still here, his tired eyes examining evidence he had looked over a dozen times already today. She almost went to offer him a hand. Almost. If she could have endured spending time with him, she would have gone in and suggested a fresh pair of eyes might help.

But selfish instinct took her to her own office, abandoning any thoughts of helping James. She didn’t have it in her.

Even sitting at her desk trawling through paperwork, she felt guilty for not checking in on Hathaway. She didn’t want him to see her or have the opportunity to interrogate her. It was horrible and self-centred of her, but even that knowledge couldn’t force her to do the right thing. All it did was distract her from her work, which was entirely unhelpful.

Infuriated with her own stupidity, Jean dropped her pen onto the desk and went to lie down on the sofa. Being horizontal was a relief. It was a stable entity underneath her after spending her days walking on shaking land.

Why couldn’t she concentrate on her work? The only thing she had been any good at, and now she couldn’t put her mind to it.

“Stupid woman,” she muttered. She bent her knees slightly and moved a cushion under her head; there was nothing else to do but try and sleep. The room was brightly lit, but Jean did not dare turn the lights off. Darkness invited monsters. Sobriety beckoned ghosts. The two combined would end her.

Lost in her own head, a knock at her door startled her. She bolted upright. “Come,” she called out.

Jean groaned to herself as James Hathaway walked in with two cups and passed one to her. “Hot chocolate,” he explained, though the drink’s scent spoke for itself. She took it, but wished he had walked in with a bottle of whisky instead.

They drank quietly for a few minutes. Jean had nothing to say to him, but she was sure that, as usual, he must have had something to say to her.

“Why aren’t you at home?” he asked her.

Jean frowned. “There’s work to be done. You understand that better than most.”

“You’re the Chief Super. You’ve earned the right to go home and put your feet up.”

“Home…” Jean mumbled, staring into her now half-empty cup. She thought of all those sayings. _There’s no place like home. Home is where the heart is. Home sweet home._

“You don’t want to go home?” Jean didn’t answer, but she knew she didn’t need to. “You told me you were fine living there alone.”

“I _am_ fine.”

“Don’t lie.”

She looked up at James, finally left with no choice but to acknowledge his presence. She could not deny how he felt anymore. It was right there in his face, and she couldn’t stand to see it. He cared. He was desperate for her to be happy. He wanted the world for her. But he could not give her it, and it clearly bothered him more than was reasonable. “James,” she whispered, “if you had any sense, you’d stay well away from me.”

“Why?”

“I wish people would stop asking that,” she sighed impatiently.

“Sorry.”

It was that word. _Sorry_. It broke the wall.

Jean did her best to hold back her tears. She did not deserve the release of crying, and she had no right to inflict her own unhappiness upon James Hathaway. But even as she bit down hard on her lip and covered her mouth, muffled sobs escaped her. James’ hand reached out and she threw it away. Part of her wanted him there. There was some part of her that wanted to cling to him – perhaps it was the rational part of her that knew James Hathaway was safe.

James looked helpless. It was with a fresh wave of self-loathing that Jean realised she had made him helpless, every time she had rebuffed his kindness. “Jean,” he said gently, “Jean, please don’t get so upset. It’s not good for you.”

She wanted to tell him how lost she was, and that she could not live with a future that didn’t match up with her past. She wished there was a way to simply show him how she felt, without words or pain. If she felt any more pain, she was going to die. Perhaps death was preferable to this. Death had some finality about it that had to be better than drifting through this hellish storm.

The only thing she could do was control her breathing and try to speak. There were no alternatives anymore. “I’m scared when I’m at home,” she forced out, her voice trembling with her unsteady breathing. “I know it’s stupid because there’s no-one there, but I’m scared. It’s pathetic.”

“No, it’s not,” James said sternly. “You’ve been through a lot in that house. Be kinder to yourself.”

“I don’t deserve any kindness.”

“You deserve nothing _but_ kindness, and happiness, and love.”

“James,” Jean said, “I don’t think I can ever be loved.”

“That’s not going to change a thing.” He pushed her hair away from her eyes. “It doesn’t change the fact that there are people who _do_ love you.”

Her control evaporated once more. This time, though, it was not the anger that came out. It was the sadness. Jean didn’t think she had ever felt such intense and simple sadness. She put her cup down on the coffee table in front of her, leaned forwards, and cried into her hands.

What else could she do?


	4. Chapter 4

“You don’t understand. I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand.”

Even after calming herself down enough to find her voice, Jean Innocent spoke through tears and a gargantuan lump that bruised in her throat.

“I can’t understand if you never explain,” James Hathaway replied gently. He was her curse, that man. Always had an answer. Never gave up, even when she gave up herself. Jean allowed herself to look at his face, and wished she hadn’t; she found that patience and affection she knew she could not possibly deserve.

She _knew_ she did not deserve him. And yet, her hand reached out for his. She suddenly needed to feel his skin against hers. Their fingers met so gently that Jean wasn’t sure if she was actually touching him. It had been so long since she allowed herself human connection that went beyond the façade of handshakes and polite one-armed hugs. It felt so strange. So warm. How could she have forgotten that other people were warm?

“Jean?” he asked. She heard the caution in his voice. He was unsure of what she was doing.

“James?” she retorted sarcastically. Her free hand wiped away her quiet tears.

“You’re going to be okay.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“I know,” sighed James. “I know.” Jean nodded her head and tried to hold back the deluge of tears that threatened to flood outwards. “Would you like me to take you home?”

She considered the question for a moment. Home was the very last place she wanted to be. It was haunted. Or perhaps she was the haunted one. Either way, the place was slowly driving her insane. But she could not move permanently into her office, either, and she could not hope to tell a convincing lie while so vulnerable. The truth was going to have to suffice. “Don’t take me home. I can’t face that yet.”

“Have you ever thought about moving out of that house?”

“It would be conceding defeat,” murmured Jean.

“No,” James said firmly. “It would mean you’re doing something that helps you recover from what happened to you.”

“Nothing drastic happened to me,” Jean reasoned. “Nothing that doesn’t happen to plenty of people every single day. If they have to live with it, so must I.”

“Live with it, perhaps. But to _relive_ it every day, in the house where your husband did unspeakable things to you? No. You must not do that.”

“James, he knocked me around a bit. He could have done much worse, but he didn’t.”

“Jean, are you forgetting that he almost killed you? That he’s left your arm irreversibly scarred? That he’s left you frightened of your own shadow?!”

There was the frustration. In the end, she always frustrated James, just as she had frustrated her husband. “That last one is more my own weakness than anything else.”

“You are _not_ weak,” James said. The words came out with such force that he seemed to growl like an angry wolf. “You’re just a bit…you’re feeling a little tender. And that’s completely understandable.”

“Don’t be nice to me,” Jean warned him. “The mood I’m in, you’ll only make me cry again.”

“Then cry,” James said. He made it sound so simple. Jean managed to push the emotion down. “Would you like to stay with me for a few days? It might be easier to see a way forward when you’re not being forced to look back.” Why did he have to do that? Why did he have to be so kind and so sensible? Despite herself, Jean nodded. James smiled. “All you ever have to do is ask, you know.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know how.”

* * *

 

“ _Reckless_.”

The word was hissed into Jean’s ear, over and over again, until she could no longer bear it. She had been too ashamed to let James know she could not sleep with the light off, so she lay alone in his darkened bedroom. She listened carefully for footsteps and creaking stairs, or the click of an opening or closing door. The house was silent. James must have been long asleep by now.

The darkness seemed to move, a shadow approaching steadily towards her. Someone loomed there, waiting to break her, just as always seemed to happen when she turned the lights out. She wanted to believe it was a nightmare, nothing of great threat, but she knew she was not asleep. She could feel the weight of the duvet on her; it pinned her down and crushed her chest. There was no hope of a quick escape in this unfamiliar room, either.

“ _What the hell are you doing?_ ” Jean closed her eyes and prayed for silence. She knew that voice. She just had not expected to hear it. She had hoped it had been contained within the walls of her own house. “ _You’re the most useless thing I’ve ever seen_.”

“Leave me alone,” she murmured. Even as she spoke, she wondered if she had finally gone mad. There was no way he could possibly be here speaking to her, and yet she could hear his voice as clearly as she heard her own. “Just leave me. Please.”

“ _You’re no good. Whining little bitch_.”

“I know. But please, be quiet. I need to sleep.”

“ _Yes. Preferably permanently_.”

Jean rolled over and pulled the vacant pillow over her head. Maybe if she kept her ears covered his voice would be muffled and inaudible. “Please stop,” she whispered. “Please leave me to sleep.”

“ _You should have died_.”

“Shut up,” Jean snarled. She didn’t want to hear that. She didn’t need to hear it, for she knew it to be true. The reminder was unnecessary. “Be quiet!” She pressed the pillow harder into her ears but it did nothing to silence him.

“ _You’re just a hindrance. You just irritate everybody. They’d never say it to your face but they all want rid of you. They want you to disappear. Your precious James hates you_.”

She could not have said why that was what made her snap, but suddenly she was throwing the pillow aimlessly across the lightless room. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut _up_!” she roared, though it seemed to come out in more of a shriek than a roar. The shadow broke through the air – Jean thought she could see molecules move as he darted across the room to avoid her projectile pillow.

“ _You’re mental, you are_.”

Jean leapt out of bed. “And you’re not?!”

She vaguely registered movement from downstairs.

Like a ghost, he was soundless in his movement, but she could feel him. She could make out the shape of him, blacker than the surrounding blackness. “ _No, I am perfectly sane. If ever I was mad, you drove me there_.”

“You don’t get to do this!” shouted Jean. “Leave me alone!”

The door swung open, and light flooded into the room. “Jean?” This voice was not his, but it was male, and she did know it. Only when the tall, slim frame stood in front of her, his hands on her wrists, did she remember she was in James Hathaway’s home. “Jean, calm down!”

She fought him. It was self-defence. Instinct. Involuntary. “Leave me!”

“Jean!” James repeated urgently. “Who are you talking to?” She stopped fighting and looked up into his face. He was worried, kind, gentle, earnest…but she still struggled to keep her arms still. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, well aware it was a lie; he would surely know, too. How could she say she was talking to a man who was currently in prison? It would be a one-way ticket to the lunatic asylum.

James was indeed sceptical – it was written all over his face – but he didn’t force the issue. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Leave a light on,” she mumbled. She did not miss the look of surprise on his face; he clearly had not been expecting such a pathetic and childish answer. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.” Jean narrowed her eyes for a moment. Why was he being so understanding of what he could not possibly grasp? “Come downstairs and get a drink. You’ve shouted yourself hoarse.”

Little good could come from disobeying him, Jean decided. This was, after all, his home she was invading. So she followed him quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen; while she sat at the kitchen table, she came to the uncomfortable realisation that she could not even string together the necessary process to help James make tea. Nothing made sense. The silence, broken only by the clinking of mugs and the boiling of the kettle, was unnerving. It meant someone saw her. Someone was observing her, and did not speak as they watched.

Life itself seemed to splinter in that little kitchen. How could she hide the cracks from James if she couldn’t even ignore them herself?

James sat down in the chair on her right, passing her a hot cup of tea; she could smell the sugar even before the mug was in her hands. “You’re scared of the dark,” James said gently. It wasn’t a question, nor was it an accusation or a snide joke. “Do you keep the lights on at home?”

Jean nodded her head and took a sip of tea so she didn’t feel obligated to speak. It was blistering hot, scalding the roof of her mouth and her tongue, but she did not complain.

“Your electricity bill must be terrifying,” he remarked. His smile was small but genuine and warm, and Jean managed to force the same in return. The clock on the wall caught her eye: it was almost two in the morning. Why on Earth was James sitting up with her at this hour? He should have told her to shut up, get a grip and go to sleep. But he didn’t. “So,” he continued matter-of-factly, “you’re frightened of the dark. You say you wanted to hit me. You’re dodging your son. You broke down earlier this evening. Do you still maintain that you’re fine?”

Jean glared at him. “You showed up drunk on my doorstep. Are _you_ okay?”

“I was trying to make sense of you. It didn’t go very well.”

“I wish you wouldn’t tie yourself in knots over me,” she sighed. “Might as well leave me to it.”

James leaned in a little closer; it was a conscious effort for Jean to remain exactly where she was. “Talk to me. Please. Tell me what I can do to help. Or tell me why you were shouting at an empty room.”

His eyes burned through her. Bright blue and utterly fierce, they watched her so closely that she wondered how he didn’t see it all for himself. James’ fingers suddenly touched hers, that feather-light connection she had so craved and yet didn’t know what to do with. “Sometimes,” she whispered, like she was telling him the dirtiest of secrets, “I can hear him. He says things to me – things I know he would say if he were really here. I hear him in the dark, when I’m alone. I thought he would leave me alone if I slept in another house, but apparently it doesn’t work like that.”

She expected him to flinch away from her, or tell her to get out of his home with her disgusting insanity. But he didn’t. He held her hand. “It’s not really him.”

“I know that,” Jean said quickly.

“I’m starting to think you need to go to the doctor,” he told her. He was not the first person to have said as much in the last twelve hours. “Hearing voices, even if you recognise he’s not really there, it means your brain is struggling to cope with things. And the anger, and the jumpiness, and avoiding your family, it all points towards you being ill.”

“I’m not mental.”

“I didn’t say you’re mental. I said you may be ill. Lots of people who go through what you have end up with some sort of illness. It’s the way the brain reacts to trauma, and everyone’s brain is different.”

“I can’t be ill. I’m supposed to be better than that.”

“I know you don’t believe that. How many times have you told us to be open-minded about this sort of thing?”

“I know, but it’s not mean to be _me_. I’m supposed to be stronger than this.”

“If you were any stronger, you’d be invincible,” James said, “and only the mythical are invincible. Human beings are a fragile species in general, even without what that man put you through. Just think about it, Jean. Please. I don’t want you to suffer any more than you already have.”

James said no more on the subject, but did not let go of Jean’s hand until they had both drained their mugs. “I should let you get some sleep,” said Jean.

“I think you need the sleep more than I do.”

She looked down at the table for a moment. And the voice she heard in that moment was real. A memory. “ _All you ever have to do is ask_.”

But asking was not something that came easily to Jean Innocent. The years had weathered away her ability to articulate her own vulnerability, and that was if she could ever accept it in the first place. “I…” she hesitated. She looked up, and James held her gaze. “Could you…could you sleep with me?” James raised his eyebrow teasingly. “Oh, Christ, I didn’t mean _that_. I meant – could you sleep next to me? I’m not sure I want to be on my own right now.”

He smiled slightly. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” Jean said sincerely. “Thank you for not abandoning me.”

“I’ll never abandon you.”

Of that, Jean was doubtful, but still she allowed him to make a promise he might not be able to keep. For now, she had to be thankful that he hadn’t kicked her out the house for disturbing his peace.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been one of those days. I need to get the kids to bed and sleep. However, the five-year-old napped beside her dad at six o'clock and is currently running about in a Wonder Woman costume, hitting Watermelon Smash off her head and asking for chocolate rice cakes. Fuck. My. Life.

When he woke the next morning, James Hathaway was surprised to feel Jean Innocent’s stomach under his hand. Her t-shirt had ridden up to leave her abdomen bare as she slept; he could feel the soft, slow movement of her breathing and the warmth and softness of her skin, and remembered that she was not made of glass, but of something far more fragile.

The enormity of the situation hit him like a freight train. Jean Innocent was hearing voices. She was afraid of the dark. She was boiling over with fear and anger. And any doctor worth their tuition fees would surely conclude that she was suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress. If he had any sense, he would have backed away now, but his affection for this woman was stronger than anything his common sense might have to say on the matter.

For the moment, he had to let her sleep. He knew she needed it, and that she probably hadn’t slept through the night since she had gone back to live in her own house.

“No-one is ever going to hurt you again,” he murmured. “Your life will be better from now on.” He leaned in and gently kissed her shoulder. “I’ll do right by you, even if it kills me. I’ll give you all I can.”

She shivered; James wasn’t sure if it was because she was unnerved or because she was cold, but he pulled the duvet over her shoulders and pressed his face into the side of her head. There was a very particular scent to this woman, something specific to Jean Innocent. It drove both ferocity and tenderness in him, and made him want to defend her but shelter her from the ugliness in the world.

He had entertained the thought of her death during those excruciating minutes in the ambulance. That day, the day her husband almost took her life, he had become convinced of how empty this world would surely be without her wit and charm, and her intelligence and determination.

“I’ll never let it happen,” he said. “Not on my watch.”

Jean turned over onto her side and tucked her head under James’ chin, her arm falling across his waist. She must have known he was awake. Or at least, she knew he was there with her. It was a start.

* * *

 

It was Monday morning that truly broke Jean. It revealed more about her own self than she had ever been willing – or able – to recognise.

A headline in the local tabloid kicked it all off. “Oxfordshire CID: The No. 1 Lesbians’ Detective Agency.” Now, that, Jean could handle. It wasn’t the first ridiculous headline they’d come up with, and she knew it would not be the last. But the story itself was about one of her sergeants and her quick temper. The Chief Constable had given Jean orders to deal with the sergeant, to give her a formal warning, but Jean was reluctant. The man who sold his story to the paper claimed to have made an innocent joke – Jean knew it was probably far from innocent.

“Sergeant,” Jean greeted Callie Furlong at her office door. “Come in.” Callie entered and stood completely still. “I’m sure you have at least a vague idea of why you’re here.”

Callie was angry. It was so obvious in the hard line of her jaw and the glare in her eyes. “Yes, ma’am. I saw the paper this morning.”

“And you’ll have guessed that the Chief Constable is less than impressed by your conduct.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Callie stared at the wall behind Jean, refusing to look at her superior officer.

“He’s ordered me to give you a formal warning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Callie said tonelessly.

“Is there any reason I shouldn’t do that?” Jean found herself asking. Callie’s eyes moved from the wall to Jean, seemingly surprised that Jean had asked for her account of what actually happened during that altercation.

“I broke up with my partner on Saturday night,” Callie said.

“The Canadian? Alison?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jean leaned on the edge of her desk and gestured for Callie to continue. “This man, Matthew Napier, he’s an old friend of my brother’s. Ex-friend, I should say – they fell out about two years ago. Kept their daft little feud going ever since. But he was drinking in the same pub as us when we – Alison and I – got into this massive fight. I was tired and upset, and probably a little drunk. Anyway, Matthew said to me, ‘Don’t worry, Callie. The two of you will rot in Hell together in the end. Your lot always get what they deserve.’ I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have done, ma’am, I know, but I did.”

Jean pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment; her instinct told her that even if Callie dealt with it badly, the incident itself was not her fault. “What did you do, sergeant?” she sighed.

Callie took a single, unapologetic step closer to Jean. “I decked him.”

“And he went to the press, presumably to try and destroy your career.”

“Or to try and out me.” Jean frowned, so Callie elaborated, “My parents still haven’t figured out I’m gay. I was only going to tell them if I had a serious relationship. It was never going to be an easy conversation, but now it’s going to be so much worse. But I think he was trying to get at my brother, too. They’re like a pair of stupid teenagers brawling over next to nothing.”

Jean took a few seconds to examine Callie’s face, and found the sergeant was being honest. She was telling the truth. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t have been so blatantly furious. “Alright,” she breathed. “Okay, I’m not going to give you a formal warning. You weren’t on duty, and you were reacting to verbal homophobic abuse. However, to placate the Chief Constable, I’ll have the vaguest of apologies typed up for you to sign.”

“I’m not apologising to that utter-”

“Sergeant, I’m throwing you a lifeline here. If the Chief Constable and this Matthew Napier had their way, you’d be down at the job centre right now. Are you really willing to give someone so filled with hatred the upper hand because you’re too proud to sign a half-hearted letter of apology?”

But wasn’t that exactly what Jean had done? Let herself be destroyed by her husband because she was too proud to admit that she was in a situation she could not save? What right did she have to be telling her sergeants that pride was stupid? She was a fraud. An imposter who was not fit to hold her rank or her position. “Ma’am?” she heard Callie Furlong ask, her voice muffled my miles of water as Jean started to drown. “Ma’am?”

“Yes, sergeant, you may go,” Jean said. She didn’t feel herself say it; suddenly she was an outsider to her own body, watching it follow commands she did not give. “I’ll send over a letter for you to sign.”

But Callie did not move. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

“Yes, sergeant. I’m fine.”

Callie stepped forwards and put her hand on Jean’s shoulder; Jean registered a gentle shake but still felt a world away from this room. Her hand reached up and touched Callie’s. It was the warmth of Callie’s skin that brought Jean back to her own body. How could a woman who had pinned a man to a pub floor be so gentle? So careful?

Her eyes were the strangest shade of hazel. Jean watched the flecks of green sparkle as Callie tried to read her. She smelled of fabric conditioner and hairspray. The fingernails on her right hand were ever so slightly longer than those on her left – Jean realised she probably played guitar in her spare time. She was well into her thirties, still a sergeant due to a heady mixture of conscience and volatility. “I know what happened to you,” Callie said. “And I know it never really leaves you. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Jean straightened herself until she was about the same height as Callie, though only because Jean was wearing the heels she had been told to avoid and Callie probably had never worn a heeled shoe in her adult life. Jean didn’t say anything; there wasn’t much she could say, for she had not expected to falter here, and she could never have predicted Callie Furlong’s kind reaction. Callie brushed Jean’s hair away from her eyes, her fingers skimming Jean’s forehead.

Jean caught Callie’s hand; she meant to let go, but didn’t. It was such a human thing to do that it took her by surprise. It was human contact with another person. Something Jean had been deprived of, apart from the time she spent with James Hathaway. Mere inches between them, Jean could smell Callie’s breath; she must have been eating hard boiled sweets, or maybe Haribo, at some stage that morning. Jean’s eyes took in Callie’s bare lips. She realised only then that she had never seen Callie Furlong wear make-up. Ever.

There was absolutely no reason to do it, and every reason not to – not least that this was her workplace – but Jean kissed Callie. She didn’t think she had it in her to kiss anyone, but she kissed Callie. She expected Callie to push her away, but the sergeant pulled her closer, kissing her hard on the mouth. Kissing her like her husband had never, ever kissed her. Kissing her like she was beautiful, or precious.

“ _Reckless_.”

Jean startled at the sound of her husband’s voice. But perhaps he was right. Maybe she was reckless enough to defy him. “You okay?” Callie whispered.

“Yes,” whimpered Jean, breathlessly clawing Callie closer. This could be the way to win. It could banish him. Attraction to another person, even a meaningless shag, might rid her of the memory of him. She may never have to hear his voice again.

Callie kissed Jean’s throat, where hands had once choked her, and her hand was between Jean’s shoulder blades, where she had so often been thrown into a wall. Jean closed her eyes.

“ _You’re married. You’re a cheat_.”

She wanted to turn around and tell him there was no reason for her to remain faithful to him. That their marriage was all but over. Instead, her hands found the warm skin under Callie’s sweater, soft against Jean’s fingers. Callie changed tack, kissing Jean on the lips, slow and intense, her hands on Jean’s hips.

Her eyes opened. Suddenly, she was not kissing Callie Furlong. Thomas Innocent stood in front of her, fury and devilment in his eyes.

Jean screamed. She shoved him across the room, her hands over her face as she watched him stumble backwards. “Ma’am?” a woman’s voice echoed in her ears. “Jean? Hey! Jean!”

When Jean uncovered her eyes, she saw Callie Furlong standing before her, whiter than white. An uncomfortable heat prickled at Jean’s skin; fear made her sweat, but stripped her of her ability to breathe properly. It did not surprise her when Callie ran out of the room, but it did leave her alone with him.

“ _Idiot. Didn’t I tell you? You’re nothing but my wife. You’ll never be anything more_.”

Pressing her hands into her ears did no good.

“ _You are nothing. Nothing_.”

Closing her eyes made him louder, hissing like a serpent into her ear.

“ _Worthless. Completely worthless_.”

Staring at the floor, Jean tried to ignore him.

“ _Insignificant. Useless. Stupid. Ugly_.”

When she looked up from the carpet, Robbie Lewis was there with her. He took her hands down from her ears and said, “Try and breathe. You’re gonna be okay.” Behind him, Callie watched on, a terrified expression upon her face. Anyone would have thought she’d assumed Jean was sane. Big mistake.

Jean put her hand on Robbie’s chest, focusing on timing her breathing with his. “I don’t know what happened. I grabbed the first person I could find who knows her,” Callie panicked. “She was-”

“It’s okay, lass,” Robbie assured her. “Jean sometimes has panic attacks. It’s nothin’ to worry about. She always gets through them. Don’t you, Jean?”

Though she did not feel like she could possibly survive a minute longer, Jean nodded her head. Below the surface, however, the water deepened as it occurred to her that she had just kissed one of her sergeants. In the office. A female sergeant, no less. She had broken all her rules, and she could not even say why she had felt the need to go there. To feel human. All she remembered was trying to make that hideous voice she had once loved disappear.

Robbie’s arms enveloped her, holding her while her body tried to function normally.

And even in his embrace, she felt Callie Furlong’s hand on her shoulder, her thumb rubbing softly. Jean realised it now: Callie had not been running away from her at all. She had been running for help. Nobody seemed to walk away from her, even when she wanted them to. But because her husband had always left her to drown, that was all she expected of everyone else in her life.


	6. Chapter 6

Robbie Lewis sat down at his desk, now that Jean was relatively calm. He wasn’t quite sure what happened with Callie Furlong to trigger such a reaction from Jean. He knew Furlong probably hadn’t harmed Jean – not intentionally, at least – and that the reaction, by his standards, was disproportionate. Of course, he could not try and say that to Jean, no matter how sensible it sounded. The old sensible Jean Innocent had long since departed, replaced by this new damaged and impulsive Jean Innocent.

“Innocent’s havin’ a nervous breakdown,” he said quietly to James, “I’m sure of it.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I dunno, exactly,” admitted Robbie. “DS Furlong caught me in the corridor – Innocent was havin’ an anxiety attack of some sort.”

“What could Callie have done to cause that?”

“I think somethin’ happened between them but neither of them would tell me a single thing.” He saw the protective mutiny in James’ face and added hastily, “I don’t think Furlong hurt her. I reckon they had a bit of a spat over that newspaper story and it freaked Innocent out – you know what Furlong’s like.”

“Wild but essentially harmless,” surmised James; it seemed he finally remembered just who it was they were discussing here. As rowdy as Callie Furlong often was, she was a good detective and a decent person. “No, you’re right. Furlong is actually quite kind, underneath all the bravado.”

“Exactly. It doesn’t make any sense for Innocent to be scared of her.”

It was only then that Robbie noticed the troubled expression James wore. “What is it?” he asked.

James hesitated, but Robbie silently told him to spit it out – which, after a few seconds’ consideration, he did. “She’s been staying with me since Friday evening.”

“Why?”

“She’s finding it too difficult to live alone in that house.”

But Robbie could tell when James was only saying half of what needed to be said; as frustrating as it was to get blood out of this particular stone, the understanding of why James held back made it a little more tolerable. “What is it you’re not tellin’ me?”

James exhaled slowly. “She’s not insane,” he said. “I know she’s not.”

“But?” Robbie pressed him, this time with more urgency. Anything that had to be preceded with the assertion that the woman wasn’t mad could not be good.

“She’s been hearing voices. Well, _a_ voice.”

“Thomas.”

“Yes, sir.”

Robbie put his hands over his face. He knew now why James had kept this to himself. The idea that Jean was breaking beyond repair was almost unthinkable, if not for the evidence in front of them. “She needs a doctor,” he said through his hands. “Before anythin’ else she needs a doctor, and somebody to make sure she goes.” When he eventually looked up, James seemed surprised. “What?” asked Robbie.

“You’re taking this far more diplomatically than I thought you might, sir. You’ve never been a great believer in mental health treatments.”

Robbie scoffed and took his hands away from his face. “I’m no believer in slappin’ a vague diagnosis on people and throwin’ pills at them,” he explained, “but I’m not a total moron. I know things like this happen and when they do, people need help – but they need proper help. Credit me with a _bit_ of sense.”

James smirked. “Now go and tell Innocent that.”

“No, talkin’ her round is your area of expertise, James.”

“I think you’ll find that’s your responsibility, sir. You do outrank me, after all.”

Robbie groaned inwardly. “James, she’s more likely to take advice on this from SpongeBob bleedin’ SquarePants than from me.” James raised an eyebrow, and his face broke into a reluctant smile. “She already thinks of me as the daft old chippy copper from up north.”

“She values you,” James replied. “She values your opinion and your friendship.” Of that, Robbie was not entirely convinced. Innocent was so capable, there was no reason for her to look down the ranks for advice. “Who was it who took her out for lunch on her birthday? Who did she go to when her husband lashed out at her that morning? Innocent doesn’t go near anyone for help unless she knows they’re trustworthy, and even then she battles with it.”

“Lad, what exactly is goin’ on with you and Innocent?” asked Robbie. This was not the first time he had heard James talk about Jean like he knew her inside and out, like he understood everything of who she was.

James frowned. “Apart from the fact I’m providing shelter at the moment, nothing.”

“What does she mean to you?”

“She’s my superior officer.” Robbie pulled a face at his sergeant; he wasn’t silly enough to fall for that one. “She’s my friend. And I’m her friend.”

“Well, be a good mate and go and tell her to move her backside to the doctor, will you?”

That idea didn’t seem to thrill James at all; however, Robbie knew James, and knew he would try to do what was right by Jean Innocent, even if it was a damn near impossible task. Once upon a time, Robbie might’ve just left them to it, but these days he was far too attached to James and cared far too much about Jean to walk away. “Maybe you should remind her that you love her,” Robbie suggested boldly. James glowered at him. “In whatever way you do. I reckon she needs it.”

“I don’t love her,” James said.

“You do, or you wouldn’t look out for her like you do.”

James fell silent. He said nothing more on the matter, but Robbie could see the cogs turning in his head as he considered the problem in the office down the corridor. “I’ll try and talk to her. That’s not to say I’ll get very far. It’s like trying to see through coal dust, talking to her.”

“Let me know how you get on.”

* * *

 

That evening, Jean decided that she would cook. Though she was not at all hungry, she didn’t want to argue with James about her lack of food consumption. Indeed, she chose to say very little to him; the best way to get his back up would be to tell him she had kissed Callie Furlong.

Why had she even done that? It was ridiculous. She was not gay – she never had been – and yet there she was, kissing women. James would go mad at her, and rightly so: it was utter stupidity. Reckless stupidity. Peeling potatoes, she allowed her mind to wander back to that moment. What scared her more than anything was that she had enjoyed kissing Callie. Kissing someone who wasn’t her own husband. She couldn’t even blame alcohol, since she had been at work and entirely sober. The only one to blame was herself.

But Callie was undeniably beautiful. Hard, sometimes rather infuriating, but beautiful and deeply decent in nature, despite her outer shell. However, Jean did not love her. She didn’t know the woman well enough to love her.

“What’s on your mind?” James’ voice asked in the distance. Jean turned her head, to find he wasn’t distant at all. He was standing a couple of feet from her. “You’re in a little world of your own over there.”

“Nothing,” smiled Jean. “It’s just been a long day, that’s all.”

Of course, there was no reason for James to believe a word she said. She knew that. Robbie Lewis probably told him about that panic attack this morning, and God only knows what Callie Furlong might have said to him. “Are you sure? You look a little pale.”

“Do I? I’m probably just a bit tired.” She continued to peel the potatoes, mainly so she didn’t have to look him in the eyes. But even though her eyes were fixated on the potato and the knife, she was not paying attention, and so the knife slipped. Blood began to ooze from the base of her thumb, mixing with the dirt and water from the potatoes. “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” she groaned. “Have you got any plasters?”

“What’s wrong?” James asked.

She heard the concern in his voice and rolled her eyes. “James, unless you want blood-flavoured mashed potatoes, get me a plaster, would you?!” she snapped. She threw the knife and half-peeled potato down onto the cutting board impatiently.

At her shoulder, James said, “That needs cleaned before a plaster goes anywhere near it.”

Suddenly irate with James and his logic, Jean pushed past him, grabbed some kitchen paper and wrapped it around her thumb and her hand. “There. That’ll do. It’ll stop bleeding without intervention.”

The coldness in her own voice took her by surprise. She had not intended it. James had not expected it, either. “Jean,” he sighed. “Jean, I think we should talk.”

“About what?” Jean asked carelessly, returning to her task of peeling potatoes. Her heart raced as she imagined the horror stories Robbie and Callie might have told him, and she remembered that he had seen her listening to imaginary voice for himself.

“About you.” Jean froze. “About you, and the fact you’re really struggling to come to terms with everything that’s happened to you. You’re hearing voices, and you’re having panic attacks, and you’re scared of your own shadow. It’s all perfectly understandable, but that’s no life for you, Jean.”

She chose to ignore him. It was the only way she could see herself avoiding this conversation. He was a persistent sod, though; it wasn’t the last she was going to hear of it. “Get me a pot out, please,” she said. She did not fail to hear his low sigh as he got nowhere with what he wanted to discuss.

Once the potatoes were in the pot, James said, “If you want to go and sort your hand out, I can-”

“Leave me alone,” Jean cut him off. “I’m cooking, so just…leave me be.”

All she wanted was to be alone, and yet it was the most terrifying prospect – her inability to live alone was the reason she was here in James’ house in the first place. But right now, she didn’t want James hovering over her. Giving her orders. Not letting her think things through. Trying to force her into a conversation she didn’t want to have.

It was only when the chicken breasts were in the oven, and the potatoes and vegetables were left simmering, that Jean took out the plasters from the drawer. She ran the tap over the cut, dried it off and stuck a plaster onto her skin; it was such a tiny thing for James to waste his energy caring about.

Left alone in the kitchen, hand all patched up, Jean finally had peace and quiet, but for the simmering pots and oven’s fan. She leaned against the countertop and tried to find some meaning behind today. There had to be a reason she kissed Callie, and it could not be that she was gay – she would have figured it out long before now if she were. She considered briefly the idea of asking James’ opinion, and then remembered there was no way she could have that talk with him. It was bound to be mortifying no matter who she told, never mind the one person who seemed to think they knew her well.

“Jean,” James said gently. She looked up; there was a tired, rather desperate look about him. “Jean, I think you need to go to a doctor. You’re not okay, and that’s alright – as long as you do something about it.”

“I’ll be fine,” she answered. It came without effort, her automatic reaction to worries over her welfare.

“You won’t be fine, because you’re far from fine as it is.”

“Why do-”

“Because you’re my friend,” he said, before she could even get the question out. He stepped forwards and put a hand on her arm. “You’re my friend, and I love you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

But wasn’t love conditional? Wasn’t it as easy to take away as it was to give? “If I agree to go to the doctor, will you shut up about it?” she asked. He was hesitant, possibly because he knew her well enough to know there were a hundred ways she could give him what he asked of her without actually having to face the reality of doing it. She was already wondering if she could get away with booking an appointment, cancelling it and coming back to him saying she was given a clean bill of health. It rather proved his suspicions about her were probably right.

“I’ll go with you,” he said; his tone was similar to that of a hostage negotiator. “I’ll stay in the waiting room if you want, but I’ll take you to the doctor.”

It was everything Jean didn’t want to do. She knew she had lied her way through her psychological check up before returning to work, but she had told herself that knowing what she should have been saying was enough. It was so much easier to believe, simpler to deal with. The other side of that was the fact even she wasn’t stubborn enough to think hearing her husband’s voice when he wasn’t there was a normal thing to experience.

So she conceded defeat, and nodded her head. James’ face betrayed the tiniest of smiles. “It’s what’s best for you,” he assured her completely ineffectively.

James turned to stand at her side, leaning as she did, and took her uninjured hand in his; their fingers were interlocked, and Jean remembered how much she needed these tiny gestures. It was pathetic, but she craved the little things. The human contact that wasn’t a slap or a punch or a shove. Affection was something she hadn’t realised until recently that she had ever missed. Not having it had become every day life; she partly blamed James, as he was the one who reintroduced it into her existence.

All affection did was make everything more complicated than it needed to be. This morning’s catastrophe was testament to that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from camping. I survived. I didn't kill anyone. Yay.

Though she did so reluctantly, Jean went to the doctor’s surgery on Thursday afternoon. She had said nothing to James – or anyone else – about Callie Furlong, and if Callie had said anything to them, they did not tell Jean about it.

Even sitting in the waiting room, she tried to come up with ways to get out of this. She wanted James to stop worrying, of course, but that did not stop her muttering, “I don’t need to be here. I am _fine_ , and I should be at work.”

“You’re not fine,” replied James. His voice was low but there was no avoiding the stern tone.

“I am!” she hissed back. “I’m functioning, aren’t I? Going to work, keeping you and Lewis on a leash!”

“Going to work is not the same as functioning! You’re not able to stay in your own house alone! You hear his voice when he’s not even here!” he reminded her impatiently. “Whatever you are, Jean, it’s not _fine_ , or any variant of the word.”

“What can a doctor do about anything?!”

“Plenty! Refer you for counselling. Medication if you need it. Information on domestic violence groups. Doctors deal with this every day, whether it’s soldiers, abuse survivors, or accident survivors! They know what to do, and you don’t. That’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

Both their mobile phones rang at that same moment; James strode away to answer his, while Jean remained seated. It was the Chief Constable, telling her about the murder of a well-known lecturer – she was being told to attend the crime scene. “I’m guessing you’ve just been given the same orders as I have,” sighed James as he returned to her.

Jean nodded her head and got to her feet, silently relieved that she had been spared this appointment. It was probably a stay of execution, but it meant she didn’t have to face anything yet. She was even willing to hitch a lift with a surly James to the crime scene, and endure his declaration of, “We’ll make you another appointment for next week.”

“James, seriously, I’m fine,” Jean moaned, shifting her weight in the passenger seat. “Now isn’t the time. A woman has been murdered and we’ve got a job to be getting on with.”

“Yeah, about that – Lewis said you should brace yourself before going in,” James advised her cautiously. “If he had his way, you wouldn’t be going in at all.”

“Why?” Jean frowned.

“It seems the victim was badly beaten before she died.”

Jean swallowed the lump in her throat as it dawned on her that Robbie Lewis was trying to protect her from a crime scene that might make her own ghosts reappear. But she ignored it, and said, “Has her next of kin been informed?”

“No,” he said, turning left at a junction. “Her next of kin is her husband, and he isn’t answering any of his means of contact.”

She didn’t need to ask what theories Lewis and Hathaway were already developing, so she allowed the silence to remain. It was so tiring, being at odds with James; he was intelligent, and so it was very difficult to outmanoeuvre him in an argument. That he now knew her so well didn’t do her any favours, either, but she would not sacrifice that for a life of solitude she knew she could never endure.

Jean stepped out of the car in front of the house; it was surrounded by uniformed officers, marked police cars and SOCO units. Was this what her own home had looked like _that_ weekend?

It was the deep breath of fresh air she took that saved her from retreating. This was her job, after all, and it was one of the few things she had ever been any good at. She followed James under the police tape and put on the blue paper suit handed to her by Laura Hobson. “It’s bad,” Laura said quietly. “Don’t be embarrassed if you feel the need to leave. Even Robbie doesn’t want to stay in there a moment longer than he has to.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jean murmured, with absolutely no idea if she really would be. One of the upsides of being the Chief Superintendent was that she generally avoided the most horrific sights that she had already witnessed on her way up the ranks. She certainly had not been to the scene of a violent crime since returning to work, anyway.

Robbie Lewis met them at the door. “Ma’am,” he greeted her gruffly; she did not fail to notice the look of concern he shared over her shoulder with James. When Robbie stepped aside, Jean could see why. On the floor lay the body of a woman; her pale face was marred by a large, dark bruise. Her throat was badly bruised, too, and there were finger marks on her arms and wrists. The scraped knuckles suggested she had, at some stage, fought back.

“Alice Dunne. Forty-four. Dr. Hobson reckons she was strangled with bare hands,” Robbie explained. “We’re tryin’ to get hold of her husband but no joy yet. Not answerin’ his mobile or work numbers, and he’s not at work at all.”

“Alice Dunne? Doesn’t she teach Law at the university?” asked Jean.

“Yes, ma’am,” James said, inching closer to Alice’s body. “I know her by reputation. She graduated from Trinity College in Dublin with a Masters in International Law and a Degree from the Irish Language department. She practiced as a barrister in Ireland before she moved to Oxford to teach about ten years ago.”

“What about the husband?” asked Robbie.

“I don’t know anything about him.”

Laura squeezed in past them and continued to examine Alice’s body. “I’d say she died about four hours ago,” she said. “So, between nine and ten this morning.”

“Who found the body?” asked James.

“Their eldest child, Tara,” sighed Robbie. “She came home for lunch and found Alice lyin’ here. She’s outside with uniform. Poor lass, she’s distraught.”

Jean’s stomach turned. It somehow made everything worse that the body was discovered by one of the children. But she only nodded and left – she did not say how appalled she was by this case, or that she was caught in a heady combination of fear, anxiety, disgust and fury. The only thing she could do was trust Robbie, James and Laura to do their jobs, and do what she could for the child who had just lost her mother. Normally she took very little to do with victims’ families unless they were complaining about something, but how could she do the same here, when this girl, Tara, had nobody in what was undoubtedly the worst moment of her life?

In the corner of the garden stood a teenage girl with short blonde hair and smeared make up. Jean approached her, and could feel her own heartbeat quicken at the thought of breaking the rules she had made for herself as a very young detective. “I’m Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent,” she said gently, holding her hand out to Tara.

“Tara Dunne,” replied the girl.

“How old are you, Tara?”

“Fifteen, Chief Superintendent Innocent.”

“Call me Jean,” she replied. “All that is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?”

Tara nodded, wiping away the tears from her face. “My brother and sister, they’re at school,” she said quickly. “Nobody has gone to tell them and I don’t want to leave them with some stranger. There’s nobody here to look after them – all our family is in Ireland."

Jean rubbed Tara’s arm softly; there was a delicate lilt in her accent that betrayed her origins. “Try and keep as calm as you can manage, alright? We’ll get to your brother and sister.” Again, Tara nodded her head. “Now, do you have any idea where your father might be?”

“No,” Tara shook her head tearfully, “but my mum and dad were in the middle of an almighty row when we left this morning. I walked Aidan and Attracta to school and just left them to it.” Jean noted the resigned tone to Tara’s voice, and knew this was likely a common occurrence in the Dunne household.

“Do you know what it was the were arguing about?” Jean asked urgently.

“Something about my uncle coming to stay next month,” Tara said. “Dad doesn’t want him here. He doesn’t like Nana or Granda being over either.” The alarm bells deafened Jean; how many times had she been told by her own husband to keep her friends and family away from the house? “But Mum kept saying that it was only going to be for a few days, because he was doing a lecture at the university, and Dad kept getting angrier. I couldn’t break them up so I took the twins and went to school.” Tara’s voice cracked and she broke down. The uniformed PC looked to Jean in panic; she had to guess he was one of the newer recruits. The one thing Jean could do was take Tara into her arms and hold her while she cried, for she could not ask any more questions until the poor girl was steady enough to answer them.

“Ssh,” Jean hushed her, her fingers in the cropped bright blonde hair. “We’re going to look after you, Tara, don’t worry.”

“I don’t want to go into care,” sniffed Tara, “and I don’t want to be sent back to Ireland. I haven’t lived there since I was six. Aidan and Attracta have _never_ lived there.”

“Don’t you worry about any of that right now,” said Jean. “I just need to ask you another question, if that’s okay.” Tara broke away from Jean and nodded her head. “Has your father ever assaulted your mother, or you and your siblings?”

What little blood had remained in Tara’s face drained away, and she clenched her jaw shut. Though that all but answered the question, Jean did need to hear it. “Now isn’t the moment to be covering things up, Tara,” she said sternly; she tried to remain kind, but was not sure how well she did. “We can’t find out what happened to your mum, or keep you and the twins safe, unless you’re honest with me.”

There was a moment of deathly silence between them before Tara finally said, “Yes. Yes, I’ve seen him hurt Mum.”

Jean nodded solemnly. “If you just wait here for me, I’ll be back in just a minute, alright?”

In the house, she placed her hand out, palm up, to Robbie. “Keys,” she demanded.

“Ma’am?” he asked; it could not have been more obvious that he was confused by her sudden order.

“I would like to borrow your car, please, Inspector Lewis,” she spelled it out for him like she was speaking to someone who was a bit slow on the uptake. “There are two younger children. We need to get to them before their father gets the chance to.”

“You think it was the husband, then?”

“Don’t you?” Jean laughed mirthlessly. “The girl says he’s beaten Alice before. So I’m going to take Tara, pick up the other two children and take them all back to the police station.”

All of this broke normal procedure. Jean Innocent was not meant to be the person who collected those children, but she was the one in charge, and she would do it anyway. It was the best thing they could do. And yet Robbie stared at her like she had entirely lost her mind. Didn’t he want to protect these three children? Wouldn’t he want his own children to be protected if anything were to happen to him? “Ma’am,” he said, “don’t you think we should wait for Social-”

“There’s no time to wait on them. _Keys_ , Inspector!” she barked.

He glowered at her but handed over his car keys. “Drive carefully,” he reminded her as she took off the protective suit. “If you’re too anxious, _stop_.”

“Yes, Lewis, I do know how to drive.”

He shook his head and turned away. James started to make his way down the stairs, so Jean left the house; she didn’t want to have to confront him as well. When she reached Tara, she said, “If you come with me, we’ll go and get Aidan and Attracta. We’ll go back to the police station.”

Tara followed her to the car and, once they set off, turned to Jean. “Are you worried Dad might try and take them out of school?”

Jean glanced at the teenager, deciding in that moment that it was better to be truthful with a fifteen-year-old. “Yes. I’m worried he might try and take them. Which school do they go to?”

“Eastern Primary School.” Jean nodded and turned right; she had passed that school on her many drunken wanderings. For once, her own weakness was useful. “Why are you doing this?” Tara asked. “I might only be a kid but I know running about picking kids up isn’t what the boss lady does.”

“You need help now, not when my overstretched force can get around to it. It’s the right thing to do.”

It was a lie, of course. All she could think of was what might have happened if Thomas had snapped like that when Chris was a child; she only hoped something would have been done to help her son if she wasn’t there to do it herself. She pulled into the school car park and looked around to Tara. “Do you want to come with me?”

“Yes. Definitely. They’re my little brother and sister, and they need me.”

The bravery of this girl was almost unfathomable, and yet completely understandable: there were times meant for running away, and times meant for running to loved ones. The trick was knowing which was which. Jean prayed that Tara knew it, because she definitely did not.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a harsh month. My brother has managed to dislocate his shoulder. My mum's cancer has made a comeback. My host dad's surgery wound isn't healing properly. On the plus side, it's Dublin Comic Con next weekend. Silver linings and all that.

Laura Hobson had, for the most part, kept some distance from Jean since she had been discharged from hospital. It wasn’t a lack of care or affection that told her to stay back; she just wanted to allow Jean the space to learn to live with her reality on her own terms, without feeling cornered.

But she knew now that Jean needed someone who wasn’t James Hathaway on her side. As much as James did love Jean, he was often forceful and stubborn with her – Laura reckoned it was down to how fiercely he loved Jean that he behaved in such an unhelpful manner. That was why she now looked up at Robbie Lewis and asked of him, “What the hell is Innocent doing?”

“Master bleedin’ heroics,” grumbled Robbie. Laura frowned. “She’s gone to get Alice’s other two kids from the school. Didn’t even get a name for the husband. Just went to the kids.”

She saw how abnormal it was, for Jean to neglect investigation for the sake of pastoral care. The Jean Innocent they were used to working with would have got the man’s name out of Tara Dunne, then – and only then – start to set the wheel in motion to get the children cared for. Sense before sentiment, always. That was the woman they had known, but it was not the woman they knew today. It was a difficult adjustment for Robbie; that much was glaringly obvious.

James stepped up to Laura’s side. “I’m beginning to really worry about her,” she admitted. “It’s not like her, to go against the grain.”

“I know,” said James, “but she’s a grown woman and there’s nothing we can really do to stop her. She’s stubborn. She’ll do her own thing regardless of how much we protest, and she’s intelligent enough not to harm anyone.”

“Except you,” Robbie muttered darkly.

“And maybe herself,” Laura chipped in. Realistically, she could see the logic in James’ resignation. He might be stubborn, but Jean was as bad, if not worse. “Has she said anything to you, Robbie?”

“Not really. I’m almost certain somethin’ happened with Callie Furlong but there’s no way of knowing when they both refuse to say anythin’ about it.”

“Should one of us go back to the station to meet her?” suggested Laura. “She’ll have three children in tow, after all. I’ve got to get back and do the post-mortem, though, so it’ll have to be one of you two.”

She watched James hesitate and consider their options. “Is it wise? The more we reach out to her, the harder she pushes back.”

“We’ve got to do somethin’ though,” Robbie said. “We can’t just leave her with three kids, the state she’s been in.”

Laura sighed. “Robbie, you go after her. She’s less likely to get irritated with you – you haven’t been watching her like Hathaway has. I’ll come in with the post-mortem results and relieve you as soon as I can.”

The two men seemed unsure of such a plan, but Laura knew what she was doing. Someone had to take charge, or Jean was going to be left to flounder when it might be most demoralising. They eventually nodded their agreement; Laura turned away as they began to discuss the crime scene, and what still needed to be done.

As Alice Dunne’s body was loaded into the back of the black ambulance, Robbie stood with Laura. “I’m gonna get a lift back to the station with one of the PCs. God only knows what I’ll say to Innocent when I see her. I could throttle her for bein’ so difficult, especially in a murder investigation. She’d flay me alive for pullin’ a stunt like that!”

“Don’t be too hard on her. She’s already unbelievably hard on herself,” Laura reminded him. “She doesn’t need any more pressure than she puts on herself.”

“What can I do?” he sighed, his hand in his hair. “I’m lost here, Laura. Seriously. I don’t know what I can do that won’t make it all a million times worse for her. Knowin’ her, she’ll threaten me with demotion to get me out of her way.”

She leaned back against the boot of one of the police cars. “You know her better than I do,” Laura pointed out.”

“You’re the one she asked to help her in the hospital, when he burned her arm with that pot.”

“Because I was the only person there.”

“No, because she trusts you not to walk away, and not to lose your temper.”

Laura chose not to argue that point; she believed Jean would have rather had James or Robbie in Accident and Emergency with her that night, but Robbie had stayed behind to stop James from kicking Thomas Innocent a hundred different shades of purple. “She’s going to be okay, as long as we keep an eye on her,” she reasoned. “It’s just getting her to take the help on offer.”

“I know. She thinks she can do it all by herself.”

“My worry is that she’ll cause a catastrophe before she accepts she can’t do everything alone.”

Robbie huffed out a tired sigh; Laura instinctively reached out for his hand. She had no doubt Robbie wanted to help Innocent. He always wanted to help those who needed it most. But Jean Innocent didn’t want help – or if she did, she was unwilling to ask for it.

* * *

 

Left in her office with three motherless children sitting on her couch, Jean Innocent suddenly remembered exactly who she was. This was not her area of expertise. This was everything she had always been terrible at. Even when she felt kindness and empathy, she did not have the ability to convey it in a way that children might understand she was on their side. She was fully aware that she came across as distant, strict and cold, and the last thing these kids needed was her and her failings.

Attracta, the youngest girl, was starting to become agitated. “Is somebody going to tell us why we’re in a police station?” she demanded. “Tara?” she asked, looking up at her eldest sibling. Tara was as lost as everyone who surrounded her; the fact that she now looked to Jean for help was terrifying.

“Yeah, we’re supposed to be at school!” Aidan reminded them.

“You’ve never complained about getting the afternoon off before,” grumbled Tara. Jean shot the teenager a glare, and immediately regretted it when she stared down at her fidgeting hands. Regardless of how unhelpful her comment was, Tara was in an impossible situation. It would make things worse to scold her.

Jean pulled a chair over and sat opposite them. “Something has happened,” she began gently, “and it’s important that we keep you here for now.”

“What do you-” Attracta began to ask.

“Mum’s dead,” Tara said bluntly. “Mum’s dead and Dad’s buggered off.”

“However,” Jean interrupted tersely, “we are not making any assumptions about what happened to your mother. We do need to find your father, though, so I need to ask you: do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“I don’t know,” Aidan said quietly. “None of us know where he is when he goes missing.”

“Does he go missing often?”

“All the time,” Attracta replied. “Every time he fights with Mum or Tara.”

Jean glanced at Tara – why hadn’t she mentioned she fought with her father? “Is there anyone he might go to see?”

“His best mate,” Tara mumbled. “John Melling. He works at the diving club.”

“Thanks,” Jean replied. “You just wait here, alright?”

They nodded their heads and turned to one another for comfort. Though Jean could have simply phoned Lewis or Hathaway, she needed to leave that room; as they were still out at the crime scene, Jean had to phone James. “Ma’am,” he answered curtly.

“The husband might have gone to his friend. John Melling, works at the scuba diving centre,” Jean said. “Any progress?”

“Yeah, Dr. Hobson has the body, and Lewis is on his way to help you with the children.”

“I don’t need help with them,” Jean said coldly; she wasn’t sure how truthful that was, but she reckoned she would survive even if she did need assistance. “What have you turned up in your search of the Dunnes’ home?”

“Well,” sighed James, “we’ve found passports for Alice, Tara, Attracta and Aidan Dunne, but none for Innes Dunne, the husband. I have to wonder if he’s planning to leave the country. It’s only a little over an hour to fly to Dublin, and he has an Irish passport. I doubt they’d look too hard at his face at passport control.”

“We’ll let Interpol know. Put a call in to Dublin, Cork and Shannon airports directly.”

“What about the Northern Irish airports?”

“Yes, Derry City and Belfast as well,” she agreed. “It would be quite easy to land there and get over the border.”

“I’ll do that as soon as I’m back at the station.”

“It’s alright, I’ll get someone who’s already here to do it. Like you said, it doesn’t take long at all to get to Ireland. He could be through security at Heathrow by now for all we know. No, you go and talk to this John Melling character, see if he knows where Innes is. Oh, and ask him if he knows about any problems between Innes, Alice and Tara.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jean hung up and leaned against the wall for a moment, and tried to count how many airports on the island of Ireland received flights from London. The man could be anywhere, and Jean was fairly sure he was guilty of murder.

“DS Furlong,” she barked into one of the offices. “Call Interpol and the main Irish airports and tell them to be on the look out for Innes Dunne. He’s wanted for questioning about the death of his wife. And get hold of Social Services for me. There are three children in my office whose home is currently a crime scene.”

Callie Furlong turned in her chair and frowned at Jean for a moment, before she replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

She didn’t look happy about it, but after all, Jean was the Chief Superintendent and Callie was the Sergeant, and she was there to take orders. “Thank you,” she managed to say, though she could not quite meet Callie’s intense gaze.

“Are you feeling any better, ma’am?” she asked.

Jean froze. Why were people so interested in whether or not she felt better than the last time they saw her? It was infuriating. Even if they really did care, it was a question Jean never quite knew how to answer, especially when the one to ask it knew when she was lying.

She stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. “Let’s clear some things up, shall we, sergeant?” she said quietly. “You do not start a conversation with me unless it is work-related. You do _not_ talk to any of your colleagues about your encounter with me the other morning. You do not ask me how I am feeling. You do not touch me. In fact, you do not come anywhere near me unless I have summoned you or it is completely necessary in order for you to effectively do the job you are paid to do.”

Callie was taken aback; that was obvious in the way she searched Jean for an explanation. She got to her feet and asked, “Why?”

“I am your superior officer.”

“You’re scared,” Callie accused her. “It’s nothing to do with you being the superior officer, and everything to do with you being scared of anyone getting close enough to really understand you.”

It clicked into place. The reason she felt drawn to Callie Furlong was the very same reason she had always been drawn to James Hathaway: she saw what lurked beneath in more detail than most people did. “I am not _scared_ ,” sneered Jean.

“You’ve got to let somebody in,” Callie continued. “Ma’am, believe me, you cannot go through this alone. It doesn’t work. All you end up with is more trauma, and more pain to try and work through. There’s no way to make sense of anything without listening to what people on the outside see. If you don’t know what other people see, you only know what your own head tells you, and nobody’s head can be trusted to tell the truth when it’s in turmoil.”

Jean opened her mouth to speak, only to close it again when she realised she had no response to what had just been said to her.

“I know you’re close to James – the pair of you are cut from the same cloth – but if there’s anything you feel you can’t say to him, you can say it to me.” Callie reached her hand out and brushed Jean’s fingertips with her own. “It’s okay to want someone to help, you know? It doesn’t make you weak. Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is admit you can’t do everything alone.”

That was another thing James and Callie both did. They both persisted with what they believed was good and right despite her objections. And though she had laid down a rule against physical contact, Jean could not deny that Calle’s touch lingered even after she withdrew her hand, or that Jean wanted the touch of human beings without the pain and power games she had become accustomed to. “Why are you doing this?” she heard herself ask. “Why are you so interested?”

“Believe it or not, ma’am, I believe I should always be kind to anyone who hasn’t tried to hurt me,” she explained. “I might be a loudmouth but I do my best to be a decent person.” She was everything Jean had never known before. There was something in her that James lacked, while she lacked James’ caution and reserve. “Ma’am? You okay?”

Jean blinked. “Yes. Sorry. I zoned out for a moment there.” Callie took her by the hand. “I’m…confused,” she admitted. “I want everyone to stay away from me but I want to be close to people, too. I don’t understand it. Surely after…well, if I was in my right mind, I’d put a five-mile exclusion zone around myself, just to be safe.”

Callie smiled. “It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid.”

“I’d noticed,” grumbled Jean. When she stared into Callie’s face, she found some kind of maturity she had never seen in her before; maybe she had written Furlong off as the troublesome sergeant, and never given her the opportunity to show any other part of herself. She was safe and she was dangerous at the same time, for Callie would never hurt Jean, but she did see more than Jean would have liked her to.

“What?” Callie asked. Jean crashed back into the office and remembered she was staring at Callie. “What is it?” She sounded worried; Jean wondered what expression had been on her face.

That one step forward she took was one of the bravest things Jean could recall doing in years. It took what little courage she had in her. She just wanted to be a person. She wanted to feel connected and alive and safe from harm. But she knew what would happen if she indulged herself. He would come back. She knew that.

And yet, there was a tiny part of her that wanted him to appear again. He was all she knew. It was the only relationship in which she knew how to survive. She wondered how far she could push him before he became impossible to tolerate.

“Kiss me,” whispered Jean. Callie raised her eyebrows in surprise, but put her hand on Jean’s neck and drew her slowly forwards.

The moment their lips met, she heard him. “ _You’re married._ ” Jean ignored him and pulled Callie closer. The hand she could feel in amongst her hair was gentle, like she might break if handled too roughly. “ _You’ll never be anything but my wife. It doesn’t matter how many women you kiss. You’re nothing._ ”

But the way Callie held her…was he lying?

“ _She’s just a sergeant. As worthless as you are_. _Same as Hathaway_.”

Jean wrapped an arm around Callie’s waist; there was something addictive about humanity, the connection as all space between them was closed. She could have sworn she felt Callie’s heart beating, their bodies were so close.

“ _Worthless_ ,” he hissed. “ _Nothing_.”

“Hey, Furlong, I’m just about to see Innocent and I was wonderin’-” a voice said behind them.

Jean and Callie sprung apart, only to find Robbie Lewis standing at the office door. “Did no-one ever teach you to knock, inspector?” Jean demanded.

“I _did_ knock.”

She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and turned Callie. “Erm, yes. Innes Dunne. Interpol. Irish airports. Social services. Thank you, sergeant.”

Callie nodded and returned to her desk. Jean strode past Robbie, out into the corridor; she heard the door close, and Robbie’s approach behind her. “What’s the story with the kids?” he asked her.

“DS Furlong is calling Social Services,” Jean replied shortly.

“Jean,” he said. She stopped dead and turned on her heel. “Was I hallucinatin’ back there?”

“Oh, don’t start,” she sighed.

“I’m not!” he said quickly. “I just…I didn’t know you’re…”

Jean glowered at him. “I’m not gay.”

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked her.

“What kind of bloody question is that?!” she exclaimed. But again, she could feel her cheeks turning red, and cursed her body for its involuntary tells.

Robbie smirked. “You might not be gay, but you’re not exactly straight either.”

“Shut up and help me with these three children,” she snapped, stepping aside to let him pass her. Though Robbie’s amusement did not leave, he softly squeezed her shoulder.

Maybe his voice really was lying.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So long since I updated! I'm sorry. Life is slightly mad. I'm back in Ireland again - County Louth this time - waiting for a no-deal Brexit to cause chaos in this border county. A hard border would be quite problematic when so many of the staff at the Drogheda hospital live in Northern Ireland, after all. Though, I could do without the massive Brexit countdown clock on the news every day. It only depresses me...

It was first thing the following morning that Jean heard the doorbell ring. With a slight smile, she realised it was the first time in forever that she had not startled halfway out of her skin at the sound. Perhaps she had begun to relent to the safety of James Hathaway’s home. Instead, she kept her attention to making the coffee and trusted no harm would come to her or James if he answered the door without back-up. The thought no longer unnerved her like it had done recently.

Her mind wandered to the Dunne case; they were still on the hunt for Innes Dunne, but Jean was almost certain that when they found him, they would get the truth.

The case itself was nothing that didn’t pass through the department on a depressingly regular basis. It was – however disturbingly – not that far out of the department's ordinary experience for someone to kill their spouse. There was a reason the spouse was always high on the list of suspects, after all. No, what had bothered her was knowing that it could so easily have been Jean who had ended up dead at the hands of her husband. Even though it had been for only the briefest moment, she had been horrified to see not Alice Dunne lying there, but Jean Innocent, And the pain in Tara Dunne’s eyes could have been Chris Innocent’s pain. Aidan and Attracta’s confusion could have been little Marjolein wondering why her Auntie Jean didn’t come to see her anymore.

This realisation – that the fact Jean had escaped with her life was down to a very particular combination of good fortune and exceptionally brilliant friends – had never been clearer than when she had first seen the dead body of Alice Dunne.

“Oh, hello, Chris,” she heard James say.

“Hi, James. How’s Mum?”

“She’s alright.” Jean rather resented that hesitation in James’ response, but tried to remind herself that, if the shoe were on the other foot, Jean would be this concerned about him, too. “Better for being away from that house, I think.”

Jean rolled her eyes and returned to making the coffee. Why was he so sure he was right about her? Although, she had to admit that if James knew about the situation between her and Callie Furlong, he might not have told Chris she was alright. Jean was the first to say – if only to herself – that her behaviour was not normal these days.

Only as Jean filled three mugs with coffee did she not that Chris and James were taking their sweet time in crossing the hallway. They were probably distracted by some work discussion or another. Sometimes she wondered if their over-involvement in their work was entirely healthy, but then she would always remember just how hypocritical it would be of her to say a single thing to them about it.

“Coffee!” she called out to them.

No response. Apparently their topic of conversation was more important than being caffeinated. In itself, that meant very little; both of those men could get sucked into a debate fairly quickly, and then ignore their surroundings to focus on the discussion.

Still, she went to find them, even if it was only so they didn’t end up having to drink cold coffee. When she found them in the living room, though, Jean knew instantly that something was amiss. The look upon Chris’ face scared her; she couldn’t recall ever seeing him wear an expression of such uncertain dread. “What’s wrong?” she asked him.

Chris exchanged a darkly significant look with James, almost like her was asking for help. “Sit down, Mum,” he said.

“No,” she replied flatly. “Spit it out.”

“Jean,” James said, “please, just sit down.” His tone did not match his face, and that terrified Jean. How many times had she seen her husband do exactly that before unleashing hellfire upon her?

Reluctantly, Jean obeyed and sat down on the sofa. “What is it?” she demanded, her manners losing the fight to the depths of the black hole of anxiety.

What surprised her was that Chris knelt down in front of her. “Mum, I’m not sure how best to tell you this,” he said carefully. “The only think I can do is come out and say it.” He put his hand over hers and squeezed gently. “Dad died. He’s dead.”

The floor beneath Jean’s feet vanished, and she suddenly understood why they had forced her to sit down. If she had been standing, she might have wobbled in that moment where the Earth seemed to lurch down into nowhere.

Unwilling to show her weakness, however, Jean found the floor. She tapped her foot to make sure it was really there, and she stood up; she went back to the kitchen. All she wanted was her coffee. It was warm and familiar – and she could distract herself with it.

She knew they followed her; she would have expected it of them even if she had not heard the footfalls behind her as she entered the kitchen. “How did it happen?” she asked. Jean had to cringe at her tone of voice. It sounded more conversational than concerned.

“They said he hanged himself in his cell overnight,” Chris said.

Jean spooned sugar into her coffee. “Did he leave anything to explain himself?” she asked coldly. If she knew her husband, he was sure to have had the last word, even in death. “Bear in mind I can find out for myself as soon as I get to the station.”

“Yes. He left a note.” There it was. The caution. The fear of telling her the truth, because what if Jean Innocent couldn’t take any more misfortune?

“I presume you bent some rule or another and got someone on the case to let you see it. What did it say?”

“I…”

She did not look up from stirring her coffee, but the was no need to. She knew James Hathaway and she knew her son, and therefore knew they were silently discussing with hand gestures and pulled faces.

“I got a copy of it,” admitted Chris. “Called in a favour with the sergeant on the case as soon as I heard he’d killed himself. I knew he’d leave something behind for us.”

“For you,” Jean corrected her son through gritted teeth. “I don’t think your father had much inclination to leave any words of comfort for me, do you?”

The silence that followed alarmed her. It even forced her to look at them.

“It wasn’t that kind of note, ma’am,” James said. Jean did not fail to notice his return to formal address.

“Then what kind of note is it?”

Chris hesitated. Whatever it was, Jean could see he was desperate not to tell her. Being his mother, she knew how to get him to tell her the truth, but she didn’t want to have to drag it out of him. “You know better than any of us what he was like, Mum. It’s a load of bollocks to justify everything he’s done.”

Normally, Jean would have pulled Chris up for cursing in front of her, but that was not something worth being side-tracked with. “I’d like to see it.”

“Honestly, it’s nothing worth reading. Just more proof he was a cruel, arrogant bastard.”

“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” she snapped at him. “Whatever went on in our marriage, he was still your father.”

“I’m an adult,” Chris reminded her coolly. “I’ll speak ill of the man who abused my mother if I want to.”

Jean glared at him but bit her tongue. She could not argue with Chris. Not right now. “Show me this letter.”

“I haven’t got it with me,” said Chris.

“Yes, you have,” Jean retorted. Chris looked at her, seemingly surprised by this response. He was so like her – she had made sure he was more like her than like Thomas – that she knew exactly how he had handled this. “I’m your mother, Chris, so I know for a fact you’ve got that letter in your car. I also know you’ve instructed whoever is covering the case not to let me see it if they can at all avoid it.”

“How do-”

“It’s what I would do,” she said simply, before he even got the question out. “So, go to your car and get me that letter.”

“No.” This time, it was not Chris who spoke, but James. “I haven’t seen this letter, but Chris has given me a general idea of its contents. Nothing he wrote there has any truth or substance to it, never mind any humanity or remorse.”

“For better or for worse,” she said calmly, deliberately trying to keep them all from arguing, “he was my husband. This note is, in effect, his dying statement. It doesn’t matter what he’s said – I have a right to hear my husband’s dying words.”

“Your right not to be harmed takes priority,” said James.

What in the world could Thomas have written down that James would believe could cause her harm? They were merely words on a page; after living through the very worst Thomas was capable of, Jean somehow doubted that anything Thomas could have said would do her more harm than he already had done.

“I’m the Chief Super,” she told them. “I can get my hands on it myself. I’d just rather my son and my friend cared enough about me not to force me down that route.”

Chris threw his hands in the air, clearly frustrated with her. James leaned forwards with his elbows on the counter, his face in his hands. “It’s precisely because we _do_ care about you that we don’t want you to have to go through seeing it,” James replied, his voice muffled by his hands. “From what Chris says, it’s utter bile, crafted to upset you, and it shouldn’t even see the light of day.”

Rather than fight with them, Jean put her mug down and left the room. She picked up her bag, her coat and her keys and waked out of the house. She was almost late for work, after all, and the Alice Dunne case needed her supervision, since James was now preoccupied with her husband’s suicide.

 _Her husband’s suicide_.

How could he be dead? Even when he was in prison, he was still there. He was still walking this Earth – or at least a single building on this Earth – and he existed. He lived. Her husband was still there. He was somewhere.

But dead…it was not the same as separated. The existence of the man had meant she was still Jean Innocent. She was still his wife and he was still her husband, and nothing was so broken that there was no hope at all that it might, someday, be fixed.

Thomas had made mistakes, certainly, but he was still the human being she had married. He was the father to her son. She had raised a child with him. And now, he was gone. Simply gone.

Logic told her that she should not cry for the loss of the man convicted of trying to kill her. There was surely nobody in the world who could understand how she could possibly love him enough to mourn his loss. The compulsion to do just that made absolutely no sense – Jean did not need to be told that – but it took her over until she was parked outside the police station sobbing in her car.

She had thought she could calmly step over his body, as he probably had once done to her, but she could not treat him as he had treated her. Whether he had loved her or not, and she had to believe he had, Jean loved him. She had loved him too long for that to be erased by a conviction, a prison cell, or even death.

Only now that he was gone did she see why his voice had been holding her hostage. He appeared not because he hated her, but because she loved him. There was a guilt that came with acknowledging his crimes aloud, and an even greater guilt that came with being attracted to someone who was not her husband.

In spite of all he had done, Jean Innocent had loved her husband with all her heart. It was inconvenient and foolish, and she knew better. Everyone – Chris, Ruth, James, Robbie, Laura, Callie - expected better of her, and rightfully so. They expected her to behave responsibly. Rationally. Intellectually.

But love was not intellectual, nor was it rational or responsible. It was inconvenient and, all too often, foolish. It was the reason Jean Innocent wept for the man who had almost taken her life.


End file.
